Disciple
by sonyat
Summary: Nothing is permanent. Death is not an ending, something that an unlucky few learn. Being (re)born into a cult makes it that much harder. It doesn't matter how many you've had or if you can remember them, life is never straight-forward; not everyone gets to play the hero. Self-Insert OC/SI OC.


**A/N: **Petrichor in May's _Rising Sun_ inspired me to do a SI OC that wasn't humorous or inserted into an existing character. Seriously, check her fic out, it's amazing!

**Warning:** Dark. This will be sad. This will be depressing, but never forget the words of Gandalf, "It is not despair, for despair is only for those who see the end beyond all doubt. We do not."

This is not my usual humor routine and is far more of a literal self-insert than my Rin SI is. If you dislike the idea of people defecting from the clans before the formation of the shinobi villages instead of (every single person) staying together then this story isn't for you.

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**Disciple**

**Prologue: Samsara**

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"_You, who have come before a God, weep no longer._

_Wander no longer, for I will set you upon the right path._

_Fear the darkness no longer, for I will teach you to walk in it._

_I will tell you no lies, for Gods require none._

_Bleed for me, and I will show you peace._

_Despair not, for you are my disciple now."_

* * *

Lying upon the ground, blood seeping through her clothes and life leaving her, she realizes she is a liar. How long had she internally proclaimed to not fear death? At least a decade surely. People around her run in a mad frenzy, all colours and screaming voices, scrambling around and over each other wildly. They claim to be boldly unafraid and desensitized; after all carrying guns of their own makes them immune, does it not? Ha. How easy another human with no reservations to pulling the trigger can shatter those pathetic ideals.

The horror in the air is nearly palatable. Now all they can do is fear death as she once believed she never would. After death there should be nothing. She's content to fade into nothingness. Obscurity has always been her safety blanket.

But it won't be the case and she knows it. She doesn't have enough strength left for tears, having been sickly and weak all her life. The bullet has taken away whatever little she possessed to begin with.

Yet here she is, cold terror tearing into her soul at the prospect now facing her. Her fear isn't like theirs though, whose belief that there may be an eternity of hell and brimstone awaiting them or the end of existence that she so desperately desires. She's terrified because she thinks she's done this before. The sense of déjà vu is overwhelming.

Her belief, her personal Samsara, that she's already lived a thousand lives and will live a thousand more until she's learnt what the higher powers that be deem acceptable and free her from the cycle. Fragments of things past, far too old for someone so young to remember, press down on her memory now that death is at hand again.

She won't remember them when it restarts.

_No please, why me?_

Someone is shaking her, begging, probably her mother, but she is too far gone to say _sorry, I'll get it right next time. I promise I won't fail again, I'm sorry._

The world is greying, the noise dimming and the fear spikes higher, adrenaline pushing her body to live that fraction longer but there's only so much more to give.

Everything is so clear now, at the end. _Please don't let it be the end. I don't want to start again._

There is a quiet exhale, hazy eyes falling to glass. It is the end.

_Where am I going now?_

* * *

It's tight, it's hot, and so dark. The sound of deafening drumbeats is maddening, like an army marching to war. Each aspect is painfully unbearable and it goes on this way seemingly unending (in reality it's only nine months). She's claustrophobic and it drives her straight into insanity. She tries to scream for months on end and can't, unable to breathe, fluid filling her lungs instead. She kicks and punches limbs that initially never move and when they start, it's never right. No matter how hard she hits, the prison never breaks.

Her only comfort is a slow, warm hum, gently building at the core of her being and spreading outwards. It mostly stays centered though and it's almost never enough to distract or soothe her.

Sometimes she thinks she hears voices, so she howls at them, curses them for caging her like this, screeching at them to free her because _what right do they have?!_

_Let me out, let me out you bastards, how dare you—LET ME OUT!_

One day, the voices listen. Her prison shatters violently, contracting over and over again. Suddenly there's no more liquid and no more air, she can't breathe! It becomes tighter, so much tighter, and she thinks she's dying _again not so soon PLEASE NO_—

(Very unfortunately, or fortunately, she doesn't realize she's being born.)

Blistering cold hits her so unexpectedly, the fierce pressure gone to nothing. At first it's so insanely disorienting she doesn't know what to do but then she hears the voices, louder and no longer dulled. The world is blurry and wholly unrecognizable. So she hacks the remaining fluid out of her lungs and _screams_ like she's never screamed before.

Somebody shouts.

There is the feeling of being wiped down oh so softly and she is wrapped in something fuzzy. Then someone is speaking quietly—she's not sure if it's to her—a giant _something_ cradling her tiny body. She doesn't understand, can't comprehend it. The drumbeats she heard in prison are back, but this time…they aren't so bad… She begins to quiet, listening intently to them.

With each steady _ba-bump_, her shrieking lessens to soft hiccups, then to nothing at all.

A woman's voice whispers foreign words to her, lovingly, soothingly. Her head is stroked tenderly. It reminds her of someone but it's hard to remember.

She doesn't remember why she was screaming again. Why had she been screaming? Why had any of…anything…bothered her?

Her mind goes mostly blank as she restarts. There are some things, tiny things, she won't let go of. She might remember them, she might not.

"_My darling, my beautiful girl, you look just like me,"_ cooed over and over, some slight changes to her songbird mantra. The humming inside the woman is as strong and bright as the sun. It's mesmerizing.

The woman makes her feel safe and she gives in. How could anything hurt her now with this warrior angel protecting her? The part that isn't her baby brain is too small to convince her otherwise.

(If only she could have known.)

* * *

It was midday when the child finally entered the world. With a final sharp scream and hefty push, the baby came out. Kiyomi collapsed back against the bedding with an exhausted sigh as the midwife quickly scooped up the child, Tetsuo's hawk-like stare pinning down her every move to make sure she attended to his first child in the proper fashion.

The baby's piercing scream shocked the room's occupants. That awful kind of scream was reserved for death alone. Already Tetsuo found himself disliking his firstborn. It shouldn't have mattered; he was planning on having many more but the thought of having a firstborn weak? It disgusted him. Natsume children that were weak were worthless and as the heir apparent and soon to be head of the Clan, he would _never_ have that.

After a tense moment, "It's a girl, Tetsuo-sama," with no congratulations or acknowledgement to the mother.

"I've already seen as much," Tetsuo replied with scorn, the disappointment and coldness in his blazing red eyes broadcast like a death-sentence.

The squirming infant continued to wail like the Shinigami itself was coming for her.

Kiyomi sat up in a panic, struggling to rise from her bed. "My baby—is my baby alright?!"

"Calm down," Tetsuo ordered his wife with more force than necessary. She stopped dead for a second, then shot him a scathing glare.

"You bastard," she snarled, body sparking visibly with chakra. Her lengthy red hair churned a storm behind her, trembling with her chakra. "That's my child! How dare—"

"This little girl is completely fine," the midwife interrupted delicately. "Fully healthy, especially strong lungs…" she murmured the last part. "Would you like to hold her, Tetsuo-sama?"

"No," he declined offhandedly but Kiyomi saw the twinge of his lips, a small tic that indicated he was heavily displeased. "You heard Chie, wife. Do you care to hold your daughter or spend the next day in a genjutsu for your insolence?" Tetsuo raised an eyebrow, otherwise looking as neutral as he had throughout the whole experience.

The outrage on Kiyomi's face grew as did her killing intent. She would surely be punished for it later and couldn't have cared less. The filthy son of a bitch…!

Sweat beaded on Chie's brow and she swallowed anxiously and prayed an all-out war wasn't about to break out in the birthing room.

Almost demonically, the young mother turned to the midwife and forcefully said, "Give her to me."

With fraying nerves, Chie was glad to hand the newest member of the Paths to her mother. "I will be waiting outside should my presence be required again." She bowed to the new parents and wasted no time leaving.

Kiyomi cradled her crying child carefully against her chest, settling herself back into the bed. "Why hello my darling, my beautiful girl," she cooed affectionately, mood immediately changing as she got to look at her daughter for the first time. Tears filled her eyes as she stroked her daughter's small head (it'd felt significantly larger), covered in wisps of red darker than her own. The baby whined and settled in record time, cuddling back against her mother.

Soon enough, the child was silent.

Both of Tetsuo's eyebrows shot up in surprise. Perhaps he'd been too quick to judge? Perhaps this child would have merit after all.

The tears brimming in Kiyomi's eyes overflowed and made hot trails down her cheeks. She tried not to sob outright and curled in on herself, shielding the small bundle in her arms. It wasn't fair, it just wasn't damn well fair! "My dear, my beautiful girl," she whispered as quiet as she could, not wanting her "husband" to hear, "I promise I won't let this place ruin you. You look just like me… I promise, I promise," she trailed off, murmuring sweet and sorrowful nothings.

"Let me see," Tetsuo gripped Kiyomi's shoulder and pulled her upright. She glared at him again, however muted it was, and discreetly wiped her face.

Tetsuo looked over his daughter with scrutinizing eyes. Her hair, what little she had of it, was red and deep. He wondered if it would lighten or darken with age. He would have preferred her with hair as black as his own.

At least he could see little spikes forming and knew she wouldn't look exactly like an Uzumaki, thank Rikudō-sama. With two fingers, Tetsuo pried open a shut eye earning a gurgling shriek from the baby and a shocked gasp from his wife. His lips turned down in disappointment: eyes as blue as her mother's. Then again, what he'd wanted to see would've been nothing short of a miracle of god.

He considered for a moment, then simply said, "Akane."

Kiyomi stared at him vacantly and tilted her head. Did he mean—? No, he couldn't! Her jaw dropped. "You can't be serious! That's so-so—do you know how many of my—"

"The matter is closed. I am her father and have named her accordingly."

Letting go of his child, Tetsuo stepped back into a corner of the room, resuming his watch on Kiyomi in case she tried anything _again_. She would be reprimanded later for being so disrespectful. Eventually his new seal would be finished and his wife would be unable to carry on as she did now.

Ah, and Akane's eyes. Hmph, well. In time he would make sure they would be as red as her hair.

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**A/N:** Working on three fics now, sheeyit what am I getting myself into. Anyway. A cult dedicated to the Sage of Six Paths (sort of, you'll see :D) and an Uzumaki/Uchiha OC, the most dangerous, in terms of writing, of them all. Fear not dear readers, this OC will not be OP god mode despite her parents – it's kinda my job as the author to keep it from getting that way. Trust me, if only til chapter 5-6.

I've wanted to make a red-haired OC named Akane for a while now and this gave me the perfect opportunity to do so. Blame it on Daddy Tetsuo. He ain't very creative.

**Question for the readers:** When I start writing this in Akane's POV, would you prefer third person or first person?


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